


sound of your breath fades with the light

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Wish I knew what you were looking for / Might have known what you would find.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	sound of your breath fades with the light

**Author's Note:**

> Title and subtitle from [Under the Milky Way](http://www.myspace.com/mwkmusic/music/songs/Under-The-Milky-Way-live-acoustic--76140678) by Church.

Most people are used to familiarity, but Andy is used to unfamiliarity. Different beds, different sunrises, different songs playing in his head and he just can't keep track of them all anymore. Each morning he wakes up and doesn’t recognize anything around him, not even his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He used to, once, he thinks. As a kid, when he first came onto the ATP tour, he remembers how much he wanted _everything_ and not just the tennis, wanted to take the whole world and consume it, cradling it close to his chest. He remembers the way that he craved new experiences: laughed as the salt water of the Hudson River sprayed his face for the first time and Jamie sat next to him with salty chips and a grin. He remembers the first time he got to Paris and saw the Eiffel tower and wondered how anyone had built something so magnificent.

These days he just sits in his hotel room, feels exhausted match after match; plays video games when he’s not playing tennis. Andy used to be so young, so full of life and naive and _vibrant_. He doesn't think any of those are true anymore. Now he can barely concentrate on the noise inside his own skull. Now the days all just blend together. Now he doesn’t care so much about the way that the sun’s rays first collide with the clouds, just wonders where his watch is.

That’s what makes it really strange when he wakes up at home for the first time in months. He _knows_ these worn, blue, bed sheets, knows the way that the mirror is just crooked in the bathroom (how Kim always tells him to fix it). He knows that he has to roll over to his left and hit that one button in order to make the alarm clock stop ringing. Andy’s used to taking exactly two minutes to turn off the alarm each morning, having to figure out where it is and how to make it stop and not go off again while he’s in the shower. Andy’s used to bumping into a couple of things trying to find his way into the bathroom, and knows that he’ll have to leave a few minutes early in order to get to the lobby in time for morning practice. He doesn’t know what to do now that turning off the alarm clock has only taken a matter of seconds.

He does a lot of it anyway, because that’s what he does. He’s up and into the bathroom without bumping into anything or wondering which door it is. He knows exactly where his toothpaste and his razor are, doesn’t have to go rummaging about in his bag to find them. The shampoo is Kim’s and it smells of Kim, warm and familiar and like brown sugar. It’s strange because normally shampoo doesn’t comfort him at all; he doesn’t know how exactly the morning will go before it does. He takes 10 minutes in the shower instead of the normal fifteen. He’s ready to go in half the time.

It’s only after he’s begun lacing up his shoes does he realize that he doesn’t have anywhere to go. If he isn’t downstairs in 25 minutes, Al won’t be storming his room asking him "where the fuck you been?" and no one is waiting for him at the gym. Andy barely has his shoes off before he flops back onto the bed, getting back under the covers sweatshirt and all. He’s tempted to just go back to sleep now, if only to see how long he can physically force himself to sleep without having to think about anything. He wishes he could forget when it is, where he is, just for a moment.

Andy allows himself to be swallowed up in the sheets that are really too small for him and lets himself pretend that he's the same twelve-year-old that he used to be, gazing up at the neon-glow stars on his ceiling. It’s not quite the same, not even dark outside, but he still remembers lying there and thinking about Wimbledon – about hoisting that trophy up to the cheering of 15,000 fans. He remembers thinking about how it would feel to _win_. Andy wonders how he used to dream so big but now he can barely dream at all.

"That Andy", they used to say, "That boy's going places. That boy has dreams." He wonders sometimes how he’s changed so much since then, wonders where "that boy" has gotten to. Somewhere along the line they stopped talking about how bright he was and how much he dreamed and started talking about how his dreams were pulling down. How his head was always in the clouds and the only way that he would get anywhere was to stop dreaming. "Work hard, train harder, push yourself to your limits. Want it and you'll get it." That's what they say now.

He wonders where he went wrong.

Andy just wants to sleep, wants to forget all of these thoughts burrowing into his mind and planting themselves into his every waking thought. But he can’t fall back into the coma he so desperately wants. He gets up from the bed instead, pads to the bathroom to brush his teeth again, just in case. He figures that he’ll get a head start on training; at least that’ll give him something to do. He’s already got it half planned-out by the time he’s across the room and he’s sure that it’ll be figured out completely before he gets to the car. He thinks that this is what he does, what he’s always done.

After losses like these, his team always tells him the same things: take some time off, sleep in, spend time with your girlfriend. But he can see in their eyes that’s not what they mean; he sees the way they look at him if he ever takes a second too long between sprints or an extra couple of minutes to grab a bite to eat. He’s convinced that they say these things about resting and relaxation and needing a break and, really, they’re not thinking that at all. He sees it, layered underneath the false comforts and niceties. It’s ingrained into their hearts and souls just as much as it’s ingrained in his.

Even if they were telling him to not do it, he thinks that he wouldn’t be able to stop, that he would read it in their eyes anyway, because it’s all that he can think with every fiber of his being. Every beat of his heart, every breath in his lungs, they all say the same thing, inescapably. It’s himself; it’s everyone around him, chanting like a mantra, like salvation: "Work hard, train harder, push yourself to your limits. Want it and you’ll get it."

 _Andy._ They chant.

 _Andy. Andy. Andy. Want it and you’ll get it. Just want it more._

Andy's on the floor of the bathroom, back pressed against the wall, before he knows it. "Is that what went wrong?" He asks, tilting his head up, wanting to yell out. His jaw's stretched open, imitating his uncontrolled, _monstrous_ screams of aggravation. He’s an unholy image: all wretchedness and agony and his words are ragged. "Did I not want it enough? Is that why I was left alone on center court, my body giving up for the first time in years? Did I not _work_ hard enough?"

He doesn't know who he's asking. He doesn't expect an answer. Maybe the others got one from somewhere and he never will; maybe they didn’t even need to ask. Maybe this is it for him: #4 in the world.

He knows what they'll say. What they'll _all_ say. But he still reaches for his phone. His fingers press into the screen and he misses the ridges of actual buttons pressing into his fingers. He can press hard, harder, into the screen and nothing will happen. He'll crack it and he'll have a new one by the next day and the broken glass won’t even sink into his skin or make him bleed. He doesn’t want the blood as much as he wants to be able to _do_ something.

Andy dials his mum's number first, already knowing that he won't call. She'll say: "Don't worry, Andy. You'll get there. I believe in you." But what she really means is still: "Work hard, train harder, push yourself to your limits. Want it and you'll get it." She loves him, he knows; just wants the best for him, but he’ll always hear the same rhythm underlying all of her words. Andy barely gets to the last number before he's pushing the clear button.

If Andy called Kim, she wouldn’t need him to talk at all. She’s good at that. She’ll ask questions and not expect answers from him. She won’t expect anything from him except for him to sit at the other end of the phone and to keep breathing. She’ll talk about her friends and what they should have for dinner this week and whose turn it is to clean the bathroom. She’ll talk about the flowers that she saw growing in their neighbor’s yard: “those purple ones,” she’ll say. “I like them, Andy. Let’s get the purple ones.” She’ll talk about how Maggie was when he was away. He wants to call her. But he also knows that once he hangs up (not this minute, not this hour, but soon), the comfort of her voice will wash away. Kim’s voice is a gift, but it’s not a solution. It’s tempting, he thinks. Andy doesn’t call Kim.

Andy almost thinks about calling Miles, knows that Miles would be patient with him. Miles will take him running and then Miles will give him a punching bag. Miles will get under his skin until he’s screaming back, until he’s rid of all of the emotion that’s trying to spill over the edges. It’s just about then that Andy remembers that he can’t call Miles anymore; that he doesn’t even know where Miles is.

He’s heard them all before. He knows what they’re all going to say. He’s tried them all but none of them have made a difference so far. Andy figures that he might as well try someone new. He starts to dial, knows the number by heart even if he’s not sure why. This time he presses the call button.

The phone rings a few times and Andy begins to think that Novak won’t pick up when he hears a "Hello?" coming from the other end. Andy’s quiet at first, but he replies, "Hey." He’s not even sure if Novak even has his phone number, whether Novak will just be confused as to who is calling him and what the hell they want. Andy clears his throat and stumbles over his next words, but he manages to get them out: "Did you. Did you ever wonder...?" He trails off, feeling silly for even making this call. Novak seems to understand, though, seems to know exactly who he’s talking to and why and when he laughs, Andy can feel the warmth of his smile over the phone. When Novak says "Andy", it sounds soft and _fond_ and Andy can’t remember the last time Novak sounded like that; he thinks it must have been years ago.

Novak asks, "Did I ever wonder what?"

"Well… did you ever wonder why you weren’t like _them_?" Andy knows that Novak knows who he’s referring to, "Why you couldn’t do what they’d done or been as successful or won as much as they had?" As an afterthought, he mumbles, "Or won at all."

Novak knows that’s not the real question. It is always about living up to Roger and Rafa, but it’s not right now, not for Andy. It’s about winning a major; being _able_ to win a major. When Novak speaks next, he’s more serious than most people think him capable of, but he knows that this isn’t a conversation to be taken lightly. He knows that right now, Andy needs him to be serious.

"You might not get there. You might be remembered as the best player to never win a grand slam. You might not be remembered at all." Novak says and Andy really wants to just say "fuck you, I don't need this right now" and hang up the phone. He knows that Novak's being serious, though, knows that, even more importantly, Novak's _right_. There's still a little bit of hysteric emotion threatening to overflow and take over Andy's thought process at the idea, but Andy calms himself down, tries to accept it. 

Novak follows the statement only moments afterward with: "Are you really going to let that happen, Murray?" And Andy isn't. He still doesn't know what it is that he's looking for in any of this. He hasn't had a huge revelation about the solution, about how to finally win a Grand Slam. He doesn't know if he'll ever get the answer that so few in the history of tennis have gotten before him. But he knows what he'll do regardless:

Work hard. Train harder. Push himself further past his limits than he's ever gone before.

Want it _until_  he gets it.


End file.
